Len Berk and appetizing stores

 

Whitefish salad

           When I was growing up in Chicago, there was a Jewish deli (is there any other kind?) next to the neighborhood theater, and we walked by the display window a lot. I was always a bit horrified by the dead fish in pans and the shriveled-looking sausages hanging above them. Venture in there to explore? Never!

But then I grew up, married a Jewish man from the Bronx, and found myself eating in the deli a lot—and loving it. When we traveled, the first thing we looked for in a new city was the deli. The marriage didn’t last, but for years I have said I got two really great things out of it: four wonderful children and a love of Jewish food.

So yesterday, I found myself a new hero. His name is Len Berk, and he is the last of the Jewish fish slicers. Twenty-some years ago, at the age of sixty-five, Berk, a retired CPA, went to work slicing fish at Zabar’s, a world-renowned appetizing store in Manhattan. These days, because of Covid-19, he stays home, but he misses his job and friends at Zabar’s. Yesterday he was interviewed on a program sponsored by The Forward (formerly The Jewish Daily Forward), a news media organization for a Jewish-American audience. Interviewed with him was New York Times food columnist Melissa Clark.

They talked about almost everything in Jewish food—belly lox, Nova lox, chubs (baby carp), hot smoked salmon (I was grown before, on a trip to the Pacific Northwest, I finally understood there is a vast difference between hot- and cold-smoked salmon). I had to look up milchig (milky) and I’d never heard of chicken carp (according to Berk, it’s what Jews ate before black cod became common and popular). The mention of whitefish salad sent me searching for a recipe—the one I found was developed by Bobby Flay, which I found sort of surprising. The mention of a bialy set my mouth watering for that taste that is like no other (like a bagel only it is not boiled before baking and instead of the bagel’s hole has a depression that is filled with chopped onion and maybe garlic and bread crumbs—heavenly!). They talked about sharpening knives and making gravlax (cold salmon cured with salt, sugar, and dill), which I’ve always wanted to try. I’m a bit scared of spending a lot for the salmon and not having it come out right—but Clark made it sound so simple.

But there’s a lot more to Len Berk than slicing fish. He writes a column for The Forward and has written about his first job as a teenage soda jerk in the Bronx, his lifelong affair with Chinese cuisine, including food trips to China, the customers he has served, including Seinfeld and Itzak Perlman and the 105-year-old man with whom he developed a slicing ritual that had to be followed every Friday when the gentleman shopped. One column advised novices on the difference between cod and sable, kippered and baked salmon. Berk, a gourmet all his life, is a veritable encyclopedia when it comes to Jewish food.

It’s no accident that he worked at Zabar’s appetizing store. Some say that designation means a store that sells fish and meat; others say it is a store that sells food you eat with bagels; still another suggestion is that it sells meat and dairy, whereas a kosher deli will not mix the two. Other well-known appetizing stores are Russ & Daughters, Sable’s, Sadelle’s, and Frankel’s.

Len Berk and appetizing stores are a whole world away from Texas and brisket and beans, but I was delighted to spend an hour in that world.

Now about the gravlax—or as Berk would have you say, the graved-lox….

Want to see Len Berk in action? Here's a video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_BtKjZNjZrk&feature=youtu.be

Erma Bombeck Lives On!

            Erma Bombeck’s classic lines stay in my mind forever. For years I saved a clipping of her column about never wanting to lose the child in her at Christmas. But perhaps her line most memorable to me was her confession that faced with a blank piece of paper in her typewriter (dates her, doesn’t it?), she’d rather go scrub floors. I felt that way this morning.

I have the climactic scene in my novel-in-progress to write, and it’s pretty well mapped out in my head; I have an article I’m fiddling with for a writers’ publication; and I have a brief essay I’m editing. So what did I do this morning?

I tackled the two big drawers in my kitchen, a chore that needs to be done with discouraging frequency. One is designed to hold pots and pans, but because it is commodious, everything get put in there—crackers in baggies, small bottles of wine, vinegars and oils because it’s close to the hot plate. It’s sort of like my closet which, because it’s large, ends up as the repository for everything we don’t know what to do with. I need a good closet redo.

Back to the kitchen: I moved the crackers—we tend to forget about them in there anyway. And I took everything out and put it back in neat order—well, as much as I could. I culled out a disposable icebox container for which I had no lid—Jordan later found the lid in her kitchen and slipped the whole thing into a small space in the drawer.

Then I moved on to the drawer that serves as my pantry. You know things have come to a sad pass when a drawer is all the pantry space I have. Once again, I took everything out, which was good because it reminded me of some things I forgot I had. I’m a hoarder of sorts—well, let’s say I don’t like to be caught unprepared. So there’s some bulgur wheat tucked away and lentils—aha, I’ll make soup this week! —and four kinds of pasta, plus countless cans of tuna, some canned chili I bought in a fit and may never eat, enough cans of anchovies that I don’t need to ever buy again—but I do love them. Now it’s all neatly arranged.

The problem, of course, is that all that neatness will disappear with daily living, and I’ll have to do it again.

But there’s more to my domesticity. When Jacob was selling cookie dough for band, I ended with two boxes. I was down to the bottom of the chocolate chip box, so I baked those cookies. My daughter-in-law Lisa reps for a line of organic products called Wildtree, and I especially liked the ranch dressing mix, so I made up one of the packets she gave me for Christmas. So tonight, I’ll have left-over shepherd’s pie, salad with ranch, and a chocolate chip cookie (and then I may hide them from Jacob).

Nice outing at noon today. Christian was puzzled when Jordan told him we were going to the hardware for onions—why not the grocery? —but when I said starter onions, he understood they were for my garden. I got basil, a trap to catch food in the sink (one of mine disappeared into thin air), and dishes to sit under plants when I water them. Then we went to Carshon’s for a good deli lunch—I had lox and they each had designer sandwiches, the Rebecca and the Ruthie.

Good news of the day: the sight in my right eye was markedly improved this morning. I could distinguish each piece of furniture in the living room. Tonight, after a day of movement that stirs things up, I can still see the furniture, but it’s pretty blurry. Still, I am so grateful for progress!

Happy weekend, everyone.

Cultivating Cheerfulness

A good friend told me today that my blogs of late have all been downers, complaints of one sort or another. Jordan chimed in with “I’ve tried to talk her out of her depression.” I have mixed feelings about this. Quite honestly, I admit I have whined a bit—my back hurt, my house is in chaos, I got a rejection—and I shared those things. I think each of us have periods of depression and discouragement, and if I’m going to do a personal blog—which mine is, particularly for this year that I’m hoping to compile them—then I think I should be honest about my feelings. Pollyanna isn’t always at home. 

On the other hand, a friend and I were going into a restaurant for lunch the other day, and I saw a woman with multiple physical handicaps pushing a small grocery cart (no matter she was pushing it away from the drive-in window of a liquor store). I looked at my friend and said, “I’m never going to complain again.” Guess I haven’t been good about keeping that resolution, though I know some of my posts have been thoughtful—i.e., the pope’s visit—and some joyful, like last night’s reunion with old friends.

Still, maybe being sure I post positively will help me improve my disposition as I go, and truthfully I’m a happier camper tonight. I think mainly it’s due to the ministrations of my brother, who did a lot of spasm relaxation techniques (lay person’s description) on my low back today—for an hour and a half or so. When he’s working to release your back, his hands may well be on your head, but it’s magic, to me, that he can say, “Yeah, it all goes to that one spot” and point to the place in my low back I knew hurt. I won’t fool—even his low impact techniques sometimes hurt like fury, but by the time I got off the treatment table my back was ever so much improved—pain free. John and Cindy, my sister-in-law, do a two-man technique that involves pushing legs straight in the air and gradually back toward my head. John said I tolerated it well, and Cindy said she couldn’t believe how flexible I was. Music to my ears.

We went to Carshon’s for lunch—best Reuben ever—and as we left, John observed that I was walking pretty well and that the fact I didn’t hurt so soon after treatment was a good sign. Tonight I do feel better than I have in a long time. A bonus; both during treatment and at lunch, I had a great visit with both of them. John asked about my tremor and I said I’d had it for a long time—it’s the reason I don’t take the juice in communion, because I can see grape juice all down the front of whatever I’m wearing. He laughed and laughed, but it’s true. I’ve always had shaky hands. It was that kind of a visit—we caught up on kids and other things.

It was a hectic day at my house with all kinds of workmen, loud saws, and noxious fumes. I can’t tell any progress in the bathroom, except they were under the house and there’s a big hole where the shower will be. But my kitchen counter went in, and I am thrilled with it—it’s going to make my kitchen looks so much lighter and brighter—and speckled as it is, it won’t show every spilled drop of everything like the old counter Formica, a dead, dull gray, did. I stop every time I go in there and admire it. No pictures—I don’t think pictures of vast empty counters tell you much. Lesson learned as I cleared the counters for this work—I have way too much junk in my kitchen. I will be judicious about what I put back.

So here I am, back to being a happy camper. Bear with me, please.

 

Livin' High

People outside my neighborhood in inner southwest Fort Worth may not understand this, but I was eating high on the hog today. I had breakfast at the Old Neighborhood Grill at the monthly get-together of the Book Ladies and lunch at Carshon's with an author who's become a friend.
The Book Ladies is a group of women who are interested in books, most of whom but not all had careers dealing with books. We have retired librarians, a couple of authors, a lot of readers. Some days there are three women; some days twelve or more. We have always said the group is open to men, but few have been brave enough. One husband sometimes comes and buries himself in a newspaper.
The Grill serves the most sumptuous breakfasts ever, from steak and eggs to breakfast tortillas, wonderful hash browns (if you remember to ask for them crisp). and terrific biscuits. I try to be modest--one egg over easy and one piece of wheat toast, with one pat of butter. Every once in a while I splurge on hash browns, but then I'm so full I kick myself.
The Grill is also home to my signing parties. Next one will be there on Saturday, February 1, from 7 a.m. to 9 a.m. because that's when owner Peter Schroeder says his readers come in. It's worked well for me before. That weekend most of my children and grandchildren will be in town, and I know they'll wander in for breakfast. To catch the non-breakfast folk, I'll have another signing Feb. 3, Monday, from 5:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. Folks can choose to have a glass of wine and socialize or stay for supper--it's always good.
For lunch, I met author Chloe Webb (Legacy of the Sacred Harp) at Carshon's, the only real Jewish deli in Fort Worth as far as I know. Chloe and I love the egg salad sandwiches, but I had just fixed myself one the other day, so I decided to have half a tongue sandwich (my love of tongue is probably another story in itself). My favorite waitress wrinkled her nose and shook her head--in other words, don't order the tongue tooday. So I had a bowl of potato soup which is always wonderful. At Carshon's soup, pies, chicken and tuna salad, are always made in the restaurant. The chocolate chiffon pies (Wed. and one other day) draw large crowds. I've been eating there for more than forty years, so it's home to me and they know me.
I think my point is you can eat at all the upscale restaurants in Fort Worth or even Dallas and NYC, but you honestly can't beat a neighborhood café with good food. I love to have the waitress at Carshons' say, "You want a pickle with your soup?" because she knows I love their pickles, or the person at the cash register at the Grill look at me in the evening and say, "Meatloaf and green beans?" Yep, that's what I want. There's something wonderful about familiarity.
I heard from friends that the Grill was out of meatloaf tonight. Travesty! So glad I had a conflict with our regular Tuesday night dinner.